


If You Give it a Name

by yet_intrepid



Series: fool enough to fight [7]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Mythology/Religion, Alien Rituals, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Original Character Death(s), Pregnancy, Shiro (Voltron)'s Missing Year, Shiro Week, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 11:12:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8622346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: "It’s only the best of the best and the worst of the worst who get assigned to death matches. Till now, Shiro has managed to avoid either designation, but his heart still flutters as he checks the chart."(Shiro Week, day two: Champion / Leadership.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> It is not enough to be dumbstruck  
> (Can you fill the silence?)  
> You must have the words in that head of yours.

It doesn’t take Shiro long to find a pattern to the arena fights.

It’s not much different from the simulator, really. Pinpoint repetitions, guess when they’ll shift. And for all their advanced tech, the Galra are simpler to understand than Garrison programming.

He stands in front of the chart that projects on the wall of the training deck, new every week—or what Shiro calls a week, anyway; he’s not sure how often it actually changes, especially in earth hours—and scans for his ID number. He’s not in the first-blood fights anymore. Instead, he’s moved up to the next category, incapacitation-or-surrender. Three fights this cycle feature his number, so Shiro makes a mental note of the opponent numbers listed for each. Then, drawing a deep breath, he checks the last category.

It’s only the best of the best and the worst of the worst who get assigned to death matches. Till now, Shiro has managed to avoid either designation, but his heart still flutters as he checks.

He’s in the clear.

He starts to turn away from the chart, but swivels back to double-check—he can’t afford to be careless. His number still isn’t there, but there’s one that stands out to him as familiar.

He scans the room and finds her, 116-2851, slumped against a wall near the practice weapons. She’s one of the fur-coated aliens, a mammal, and Shiro doesn’t remember her name. But they’ve sparred before; they’ve even shared a cell once or twice.

She straightens her long body (Shiro’s always reminded of a prairie dog on its hind feet, somehow) and reaches for a blunt, light sword made of something like aluminum.

“Practice?” she says to him, in Galra, as he approaches.

Shiro nods, reaching for a practice sword of his own. He doesn’t know the Galra word for _I’m sorry_ , and it’d be inadequate anyway. So he just says “yes,” and gives her a sympathetic smile.

116-2851 doesn’t meet his eyes. He wonders if it’s a cultural thing or if she really doesn’t want to look at him, but if he doesn’t know how to say _I’m sorry_ , he certainly doesn’t have enough vocabulary for that conversation.

“You saw the chart?” he asks, instead, as they head over to the area that’s been cleared for practice.

“Yes,” she says. She still doesn’t look at him, hefting the aluminum sword in her hand. “I want to be—ready.”

Shiro nods. “I want to help,” he says, hesitating over the last word because he’s not sure he’s pronouncing it right. “Help,” he tries again.

She does look at him, then, just for a moment, and opens her mouth. Shiro creases his eyebrows, checks for guards in case she’s about to say something mutinous—he knows they’re video monitored in here, but it’s always harder to get away with things if there’s actually someone in the room.

But she doesn’t speak. Just lifts her aluminum sword and charges at him, so he can barely block in time.

She’s good, Shiro thinks, as he fumbles to defend against the next few strikes. That’s—that’s something, at least. At least she’s not being sent into the death matches for the reigning champion to get a quick kill, or for a drawn-out clumsy match between two novices.

He stays on the defensive for a solid couple of minutes before the muscle memory from sparring with her before clicks into place. It’s nice, almost, with the warmth of exercise sweeping through him, the adrenaline pushing his racing fear aside. It’s nice knowing she’s not going to hurt him, that he can lose and—for now—still be okay.

But he’s got an obligation to her, somehow, to fight his best. Going easy won’t help her survive her match—and he’s got to help, because they’re prisoners together, because no one else is going to help them.

So once he’s figured it out, he ramps up his game. They circle each other and he starts striking back. He uses his left hand a bit, too, grappling and punching where he can.

“I have,” she says, dodging his sword, “I have a—” and there’s a word he doesn’t know. As he tilts his head in confusion, she comes back at him with an attack.

“I have…” She tries to work around it. “Small. In my body.”

Shiro’s mouth opens, dumbstruck. She’s _pregnant_.

“I want to be ready,” she says again. “I will not have a child”—or at least that’s what Shiro guesses it means, the same word from before—“for the Galra.”

His guard drops. She leaps in, landing the aluminum sword with a smack across his right bicep, then lays it against his throat. Shiro nods in acknowledgement of her victory, drops his own practice weapon.

“You want,” he says, tentatively. Just to confirm. “You want not to win.”

She nods. Draws the practice blade horizontally like she’s slitting his throat. “And I want,” she says, and then hesitates, forehead creasing as she tries to phrase it in a way he’ll understand. “I want to die like my people. Then, after, I will be happy. And my child will be happy.”

“What does it mean?” Shiro asks. “To die like your people.”

“You will say my name,” she explains. “If you want. Like this.” Setting aside the sword, she reaches out, taking his hands and turning them palm-up. “With my people, it is when the—the planet circles to see the big star.” She says another word he doesn’t know, but he can guess it means _morning_.

“With the Galra there is no morning,” he says, repeating the new word carefully.

She nods. “If you want, you will say it when you wake up.”

“I will say it when I wake up,” he promises her, swallowing. He wonders if, in her culture, this is the bridge to the afterlife. “And your child? Will I say two names?”

She taps her chest. “My name is Uliaki.” Then she rests her other hand over her belly. “The child—the name of the child will be Prisa.”

“Uliaki,” he repeats after her. “Prisa.”

Uliaki helps him say the names right, and then they spar again. This time, Shiro wins.

\----

He sees her only in passing after that. Since he’s not scheduled for any fights the day of her match, the guards keep him busy with work assignments, scrubbing the floor of empty cells. But he knows when she dies, because the crowds in the arena cheer so loudly he can hear them five decks down. They don’t cheer like that for anything else.

Shiro straightens up onto his knees, letting the damp rag fall from his hand onto a floor still stained with piss and blood. He flexes his sore fingers as he checks for guards, and then he turns his palms up.

“Uliaki,” he whispers. “Prisa.”

She didn’t say, he realizes, how many mornings he should name them, lift them to the stars. But it doesn’t matter. If he turns up his palms every time he wakes until it’s his turn to die in the arena, well, it can’t hurt Uliaki and her child.

He clenches his hands into fists and picks up the rag again. It can’t _help_ them either, probably. But at this point, Shiro will take the patterns. He’ll take them, and he’ll hold on, and he’ll thank them for whatever sliver of hope and agency they can give.


End file.
